Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality by Bill Peters Read Free Book Online Page B

say.
    But like all moms, if the Japanese bomb your house, she’ll tell you it’s your fault for living there. She turns around.
    â€œThree hundred dollars. Rent,” she says. “You will start paying at the end of April. I will not have a freeloading knife collector in this house.”
    â€œMom!”
    â€œGo work construction somewhere,” Her Witchy Tundracuntedness says. “It’s good for your hands.” She laughs her one Ha. She hands me the investigator’s card, but I’m so pissed I tear the card up and let the pieces float to the floor and walk out of there right in her face.
    Because when Toby drives us to find Luckytown, you can already hear the harmonica in the wind, the Bow Tie Being Unpinned from the Dead. The gravel hisses when we pull into the lot of Goateez Sports Bar, out in the shoebox storefronts of Victor, the town where Luckytown hangs out, because we just know this, though I forget how.
    On the Goateez marquee, it says: 8 PM WET T-SHIRT CONTEST / 10PM CHRONIC PARADIGM. Cars are parked even on the grass across the street. Inside, it smells like peanut shells and roasted clothing. The decorations are standard Box of Atmosphere: Coors banners; dark wood lacquer that’s a little greenish like old, infected chocolate; dimming softball trophies and shamrocks.
    Me, Necro, Toby, and Lip Cheese shoulder-wedge through the crowd—no Genny or Labatt’s or Shea’s here. We stand behind Toby. I can barely see above or around his shoulders.
    But when we see Luckytown Hastings—with his friends at a booth, collared shirt under a black sweater, anchorman grin perfect enough to put you to sleep after a workday—I no longer want any part of this, am suddenly so embarrassed that I’m unable to see anything in front of me, blood cells in the Pope-like Boner of Hate returning to base. The blood cells in Toby’s Pope-like Boner of Hate, too, appear to be returning tobase. Because when Luckytown notices us, Toby spins away to avoid eye contact.
    â€œActually let’s just hang out,” he says. “This is Colonel Hellstache. I didn’t mean Luckytown when I said that.”
    â€œWait—what are you talking about?” Lip Cheese says.
    â€œI said I don’t know why I said Luckytown Pinned Bow Ties on the Dead! I was upset! That tape over Wicked College John’s face messed me up!”
    â€œPinned what, Toby?” Luckytown says, suddenly from behind, gnashing his whole body at us.
    Toby looks down and, as if remembering to, folds his arms and says, “Nothing.”
    Luckytown turns to his friends, who are both wearing Dickshirts—one with the Goldschlager logo; another that says HOW DO I LIVE? on the front and FCKN’ LOUD on the back. He lowers his voice, like he’s maybe impersonating someone. “Does he have a raincoat for that?” Which his stupid friends laugh at for some reason. Like it’s a joke.
    â€œA raincoat for your eye , maybe!” Lip Cheese yells, pointing at Luckytown from over Toby’s shoulder.
    Luckytown, whose meanness alone, if you liquefied it and drank it, could kill a man, stands up from the table. He grinds his teeth down to powder. Toby’s face muscles deaden with what might actually be fear. So he yells:
    â€œEveryone! Everyone!” And when the crowd quiets, Toby appears even more scared, like he hadn’t anticipated talking to a quiet room. “Um, so basically, this guy, Tom Hander, he may—or maybe not—have made a bomb out of a Timex watch to blow up the Rochester Public Broadcast building. So,you know, we were just dropping by to, you know, accuse him of that, and to make you all aware of, you know …” Then, Toby yells, in total Auxiliary-Level Embarrassment-Recovery Mode: “Pinning Bow Ties on the Dead! Our friend is in a coma because of this man right here!”
    Except, then? Luckytown, and everyone in this Mung-Hut Dynasty of